I'm missing my boy something fierce. "But won't you see him in a couple of hours?" asked The Man when I confessed this earlier today.
But that's not the boy I miss. I miss him when he was four, when he was two, when he was a brand new pink worm with a pointy newborn head. I miss the way he used to fall asleep with his head on my shoulder after nursing, and breathe his sweet milk breath in my face. I miss nibbling on his little fingers and toes. I miss his clunky toddler run. I miss the way he used to say "doog" when asked how he was doing, like he had some form of verbal dyslexia.
The kid I'll see in a couple hours is a nearly 8-year old gangly skateboarder who blasts Rage Against the Machine from his bedroom. One whose toes, I can assure you, will go nowhere near my lips ever again. Not even right after a bath.
Of course, there is plenty to love about this older version too. This one sleeps through the night and wipes his own ass, for starters. But maybe just a few minutes to hold him and snuggle him like I could when he was little? To kiss his sweet little cheeks while he sleeps in my arms? Please? Just two more minutes of this?
Bonjour: Paris Surrounds
1 day ago